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It began during that morning appearing entirely routine. I rode with my husband and son to collect a new puppy. Life felt predictable – then reality shattered.

Checking my device, I discovered reports about the border region. I dialed my parent, expecting her cheerful voice saying she was safe. No answer. My dad couldn't be reached. Afterward, my brother answered – his speech instantly communicated the terrible truth before he explained.

The Emerging Tragedy

I've witnessed so many people through news coverage whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze demonstrating they didn't understand what they'd lost. Now it was me. The floodwaters of tragedy were rising, and the debris remained chaotic.

My young one glanced toward me across the seat. I relocated to contact people separately. By the time we reached the city, I would witness the horrific murder of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – as it was streamed by the terrorists who seized her residence.

I recall believing: "None of our friends would make it."

At some point, I viewed videos depicting flames erupting from our house. Despite this, in the following days, I refused to accept the house was destroyed – until my family provided photographs and evidence.

The Aftermath

When we reached the city, I phoned the puppy provider. "Hostilities has started," I told them. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz has been taken over by terrorists."

The ride back involved attempting to reach community members and at the same time guarding my young one from the horrific images that spread everywhere.

The images from that day exceeded anything we could imagine. Our neighbor's young son captured by armed militants. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

People shared social media clips that defied reality. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured into the territory. My friend's daughter and her little boys – kids I recently saw – seized by armed terrorists, the horror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It appeared to take forever for the military to come the kibbutz. Then began the terrible uncertainty for updates. Later that afternoon, a single image circulated depicting escapees. My family weren't there.

Over many days, while neighbors assisted investigators document losses, we scoured the internet for evidence of family members. We encountered brutality and violence. There was no visual evidence about Dad – no evidence concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Over time, the situation emerged more fully. My senior mother and father – along with dozens more – were abducted from our kibbutz. Dad had reached 83 years, my other parent was elderly. In the chaos, a quarter of the residents were killed or captured.

Seventeen days later, my mum left captivity. Prior to leaving, she turned and shook hands of the militant. "Shalom," she said. That moment – a simple human connection within indescribable tragedy – was shared everywhere.

Over 500 days afterward, Dad's body came back. He was killed just two miles from our home.

The Persistent Wound

These tragedies and the visual proof continue to haunt me. Everything that followed – our desperate campaign for the captives, my father's horrific end, the continuing conflict, the tragedy in the territory – has intensified the initial trauma.

Both my parents had always been peace activists. My mother still is, like other loved ones. We understand that hostility and vengeance won't provide even momentary relief from our suffering.

I share these thoughts amid sorrow. Over the months, talking about what happened becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The young ones of my friends remain hostages with the burden of subsequent events remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

In my mind, I call remembering what happened "navigating the pain". We've become accustomed sharing our story to campaign for hostage release, while mourning remains a luxury we cannot afford – after 24 months, our campaign continues.

No part of this narrative is intended as justification for war. I have consistently opposed the fighting from the beginning. The residents across the border endured tragedy unimaginably.

I am horrified by leadership actions, but I also insist that the attackers cannot be considered benign resistance fighters. Since I witnessed their atrocities on October 7th. They betrayed their own people – ensuring suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Social Divide

Telling my truth with those who defend what happened appears as betraying my dead. My community here experiences rising hostility, and our people back home has fought with the authorities consistently and been betrayed repeatedly.

Across the fields, the devastation of the territory is visible and emotional. It shocks me. Meanwhile, the ethical free pass that numerous people appear to offer to the attackers makes me despair.